


A Series of Fortunate coincidences

by Riku_Akawa_Uchigaki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Jealousy, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Protective John, Public Sex, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riku_Akawa_Uchigaki/pseuds/Riku_Akawa_Uchigaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was not a man of any conventional terms, any thing, person, or item that stayed in his life had a meaning. </p><p>John Watson seemed to click, seemed to fit right in the gap between himself and the rest of humanity, he completed the bridge, but left them as island. </p><p>The detective and his blogger Doctor, A meeting with Moriarty changes their everyday life a whole 360 degrees.<br/>John has to make a choice, between keeping Sherlock safe and keeping Sherlock's Love. </p><p>(I hope to update this every week,  I shall keep you up to date on when I can update if I am late with next chapters! :D ENJOY!!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Fortunate coincidences

London city holds a population of over 8,000 million , but on the morning of June 26th our story starts in an old victorian style flat share where our attention is gathered by a tall lanky figure.Obviously Male, stumbling his way through a pile of books and case files towards a dimly lit green tiled kitchen, hands fumbling for any object suitable enough to hold liquid. His form hung forward in a hunch from the shoulders to his waist, long pale limbs sticking out from upturned blue dressing gown sleeve. Bones prominent over his elbows and wrists as he flicked the kettle on with a satisfying clicking sound. Music to ones ears. The figure swept one hand through an overruled mop of dark brown, almost black, curls, as he pushed the clean beaker he had found from a previous experiment that lay on the kitchen table behind him, lazily towards the kettle. His Eyes remained closed, far too preoccupied in the constant musings in his head, as his head twitched every so often to the side as if indicating the flicking through of pages within his brain.

Fingers danced past the kettle in a way that dictated that he had done this a thousand times before. Pouring the equivalent of two teaspoons of coffee grounds and two teaspoons of sugar into the beaker. His head stopped in its twitch as the kettle slowed its boiling process with an automatic switch off, picking the kettle up, he poured the water into the beaker, rising slightly in stance as the coffee smelling steam rose through his nostrils and refuelled his brain. Replacing the kettle for the beaker in his hand, not caring that the glass was almost painfully hot against his fingers. He swished it in a circular motion with his wrist to help stir the contents as he brought it to his lips. Giving a small swig, his lips quirked into a satisfied half smile as his body shot into full life, the musings still flicking away in his brain, memorised case files being placed and categorised within his ‘mind palace’, cream almost pale eyelids flickered open to reveal stormy silver eyes, pupils dilating ever so slightly as he took another, long swig of the concoction in his hands. This was Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker street. 

Sherlock Holmes was not a man of any conventional terms, every single thing, item or otherwise, that came and stayed into his life had a meaning. Most of the items spread around his flat, for example the half worn down painting that stood on the bookshelf in the living room, had come from cases..solved cases..as a form of a trophy. The flat itself held a value, the landlady Mrs’Hudson was an old friend, somewhat of a nanny/mother type figure throughout Sherlocks life, This place was more of a home than the home he had grown up in, taking refuge from life, in Mrs.Hudson's own apartment 221A. When he had been old enough to leave home, and had saved enough money from old cases, which he no longer gathered money from, he had not thought twice in taking up 221B, and had moved right on in. This was his 4th year living within this building, the rent was pretty high even with the discount that Mrs’Hudson had given him. She had given him the advice of finding a flat mate, which had made him chuckle wholeheartedly for the first time in his life, who would want to live with him. 

His fingers tightened over the beaker that had started to cool against his ice cold fingers, lips lifted into a half mad smile/snarl as he filtered through the people who had come to look at the apartment, liked it, but changed their mind on knowing who they would be sharing with. It’s not that it really bothered Sherlock what people thought of him, he had built a wall up and deleted the contents the other side of it a few years back, when life at boarding school had driven him to drugs. It was that no-one ever seemed to stick around, not one, there had to be at least one.  
Heaving a heavy sigh Sherlock placed the beaker back onto the side and left it there..might as well see how long it took black coffee to grow mold..is what he usually told himself when he couldn't be bothered to wash up. Taking the long strides but few steps past the fridge to the hallway towards his bedroom, Sherlock let his Dressing gown slip from his shoulders into a heap on the floor as he proceeded to strip into the bathroom. Once washed and dressed a deep blue suit jacket and trousers, white shirt and black shined shoes, all of which took a exact recorded time of 15 minutes and 12.2 seconds, Sherlock found himself back in the kitchen..a room he spent a lot of his time in.  
Stopping to a complete and almost statue like stillness, he cocked his head at a slight angle to the right, pulling out his calendar from his head and scratching out dates that had passed and what could be done in days to come. Moving his head in a small circular motion, he circled in Blue ink todays date reading the little notes he had left there, clapping his hands into a prayer like stance in front of his face, he folded and put away the calendar back into the draw of his mind palace. “ah..St.Barts..I do love the smell of fresh bodies in the morning” his deep baritone of a voice mumbled richly. He at least hoped that they had some fresh ones. 

Before the clock had struck 8am, Sherlock was all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, the added wardrobe of a long Belstaff coat and blue scarf, in front of a set of white doors, a small silver lettered plaque sat above the double doors with the words ‘Morgue’ on it. St.Barts was a frequently used hospital, a local London Hospital, however certain sections of it were held off from members of public and some staff, Sherlock found himself with special permission..probably from a force unknown to most, that allowed him to at anytime to pass through. The Morgue was of course a place that Sherlock visited often, he however did not have authority to get into where the bodies were stored and kept chilled before their dated Autopsy. There were 4 staff members who worked within the Morgue, a young man..cheating on his girlfriend with a guy, a woman shifting into her 60’s with no thought to retirement, an elderly chap who was in many ways the same as the woman mentioned before and a young girl named Molly Hooper. She didn't arrive until 8:15am, after the other three workers left from their night/early morning shifts.  
He kept his eye on the tall set of windows across the way from the doors, a silver blue in coloured sharpened to silver as the ticking from a near by clocked had reached the number of ticks he had counted for the time to say exactly 8:15am. He turned back just in time to see a woman of a thin figure, short in height, a long brown ponytail was loosely placed over her shoulder that held structure to a long white lab coat.  
"Sherlock" her voice was bubbly and somewhat held back in tone, the obvious account for happiness and excitement was something Sherlock heard in her voice often whilst they spoke, he had shown his obvious dislike for it a few times and she seemed to keep in check to hold it back.  
"Ah Molly, just who I wanted to see" 

They exchanged what was to others an awkward smile before they ventured off in the morgue, Molly shuffled around for a few minutes getting his workbench set up with the right tools, before her attention was placed onto sherlock.  
Sherlock had immediately, once entering the room, forced his way into the backroom, gloved fingers brushing across pristine chrome benches before pulling out a refrigerated body from one of the pigeon holes. Molly had followed behind, when she could, her hands clasped lightly behind her back, elbows bent out to eh side, eyes intensely staring up towards the taller man.

"this one then" Sherlock muttered, his voice drowsy with boredom, eyes however alight as they grasped over every inch of the body before him. The body was of a man, late 40's, brown hair, green eyes.  
"Lestrade tells me he was murdered by a stab wound,..let me see it"

Molly jumped, her body flying forward in quick action, dainty hands prying back the white sheet from the dead man's side.  
"He was bought in yesterday, it hasn't been checked to yet, so it's still all fresh,..coffee"  
Sherlock raised a brow, silver eyes tracing down the wound before flickering over towards Molly. "Coffee..yes, black, two sugars please, place it on the table" A Nose scrunch was indicated in Mollys direction, he knew he was blowing her off from the idea of a date. Not his type of area.

"Wound not fresh, it's been dressed, there are small traces of cotton, though not one of a dabbing source, a bandage then, he's wrapped this wound in hopes to stop it, he didn't go to a hospital, most likely because the stabbing was something he brought on himself, there is slight bruising around his wrists, finger marks..quite evident, indicating he was held down. Slight indent at the tip suggesting long fingernails, a woman then. a Love bite is placed in one...no..three places across his body, though two wear a basis of pink lipstick..probably from two different woman then. Enough to set of a fight, enough for a crazed girlfriend to want revenge. The wound didn't kill him, there is a slight hint of rust on the wound entrance, the knife probably old.." Eyes squinting, breath coming in a quick puff of his chest. Sherlock glanced towards the bodies hair. 

"there's mud in his hair, the scent of alcohol is present, strong enough to be a spirit, probably a garden party, knife wound, rather large in length, suggesting a thick blade..though there's a smaller marking an equal distance from this. Garden party, knife type wound, rust, alcohol.  
Probably drunken girlfriend, found him cheating, always the way things go. Garden shed, filled with planting tools, distance between the main wound and the small incision. Scissors held at an angle.. Hedge trimmers.."  
Tugging his phone from his pocket, he tapped out a message to lestrade. 

Black curls bobbed at a small flicker of his head, eyes now placed towards the doors as a whisper of words he could not hear floated from that direction. Molly always the pleasant one, was over straight away, talking about business to a small tubby man, glasses placed on the end of his rather thin nose, a lab coat just like hers blended them in together. Next to him stood a man, lab coat draped over his left arm, right arm held straight attached to a walking stick, helping him to stand upright. a thick blue jumper pasted itself over his otherwise firm looking frame, eyes blue and directed at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pupils looking the man up and down on their own accord. He took in every structure of information from this new human and placed it in the 'to sort' file in his mind. 

"started work today, you've been short of money, probably because you've been dreading to get back into social practice ever since you left the army...not left..sent home, made to retire early. Injury must have been bad then, I would say your leg, but you seem to be standing just fine on it, so place no one can really see...Left arm I presume, you've been using your right hand for everything, though it is always a cm off it's mark, suggesting you are left handed. why would you use your non-dominant hand for things? obvious, you've been shot, left arm or shoulder..hard to tell, both places would affect that whole section to a non-workable degree. Your forehead creased when I mentioned army, so you didn't want to leave then, feel you've been kicked out too early, you are a doctor, otherwise you wouldn't be working here. Army doctor then, great on the field, with live fresh wounds..good for surgery..though you seem to be placed in practice, probably because your left hand is still suffering from trauma..you are not happy about it....May I borrow your phone?..my one's conked out on me..does that..thrown it too many times.." 

He watched as a tanned hand broke through his invisible barrier, his eyes reached from the spam of the man's elbow down to his fingers, the rather long digits curled around a black smartphone. Sherlocks eyes flickered quickly back up the mans arm, across a vast span of chest, and up over a slightly unshaven chin, silver blue irises now focused solely on a pair of pale cracked lips as the formed words. 

"Sure, Prefer to text?" Pale eyes blinked upwards in a quick motion, pupils dilating ever so slightly, brushing up against the vast colours of his eyes. The left side of his mouth stretched out to the side, a foreign feeling to his facial muscles, a smile he realised, one he never truly felt. Pale fingers brushed up across knuckles of a tanned hand, the exchanging of the phone took place, while Sherlock's mind stood up amongst other more interesting facts floating around the room.  
He could deafly hear Molly giggling in the background, her small mouse like voice spiking between his concentration, as she explained to Mike the reason's as to why there was pictures of a dead body and bruising on the shared laptop screen. An old experiment, two days ago sherlock had to know how long and if bruises formed on a body more than two days of age.  
Coiling his arm back, planting it firmly against his own body as he quickly fired a text to Lestrade's number, Eyes roamed to his fast typing fingers, all attention snapped away from this new equation in his life. He could feel the warm air radiating from the man with the draped over white coat, could hear the intake of every breath, His own lungs felt like they were burning, a sharp pang hit his chest, a flick of his wrists and he was handing the phone back.

"Chemical Imbalance.." the words left his throat on a wave of a whisper, he felt rather than saw the man next to him take a step back. "Thank you for the..the phone" settling back into a comfortable stance, a cough overtook his words, He needed to get out, Closing his eyes for a split second or two, Sherlock blended together all escape routes, eyelids flickering the indication that he was running the map through his frontal synapses. "Must dash, left the dog with the landlady..know what they are like" for once he had no idea what he was saying, his eyebrows drew together, causing small wrinkles to bunch up across the bridge of his nose, eyes now dashing towards the double doors before his body had even moved.

"again..for the phone..." 

"John...John Watson" John, that was a fitting name, common but strong and stable. Something he prided himself in portraying, Sherlock nodded his head, filing away the name and all information he had gathered, excluding that of his apparently pounding heart. Transport after all was all he ever said his body was, a way of his Intelligence getting around, a carrier it was, he had no need for it otherwise. His tall frame pivoted towards the doorway, seemingly numb feet plodding heavily across the floor, polished black shoes guided him across the small space long fingers gripping at the door handle with a firm grip. Dropping the tense feeling as he slipped between the 50 cm gap, curls bobbing in their place as his head dropped down to press against his chest, insufferable, the pounding against the inside of his left ribs, the fizzy feeling spreading out through his veins, deep penetrating betraying electricity sparked out to every corner and curve of his body, nerve endings spirling in ways he had never thought to investigate on. Voices from inside the doors he currently rested on could be heard.  
Sherlock inhaled and kept a hold of his breath ,listening, waiting, surely, John would wonder, would be like the rest, even Mike spoke about him, he knew it. all Anderson's behind closed doors.

"..and who was that?" John's voice was still the same warm, breath taking lowness that it was when he was inside the room, Sherlock couldn't deduce anything from it, his lips pursed as he strained to listen further. The rustle of fabric, the dropping of footfalls that were not in sync, but matched in weight and distance, John then, turning to face Molly and Mike, the bad leg and the cane changing the timing of his right foot catching his left. 

"S-Sherlock Holmes, he's like that with everybody..he can be kind of.." Mike's voice was booming, it was full of quick breaths, probably due to the weight gain, he was around 11 stone this time last year, had quickly gained another 3-4 after his wife had gotten pregnant. The fizzing of Sherlock's veins froze, the limbo of John's replying waiting and hanging by a thread, one that held scissors to it, fraying at every swing, the air still being held in his lungs had started to burn. Flashes of responses from his school years hitting him once twice, 53 times in the gut, he could feel the bile, the rejection starting to kick at the wall around his mind palace, the room that had been locked was starting to open. 

"amazing" the key froze, he could feel tanned hands pushing the door back closed, a double lock this time taking place to keep it bordered and shut off. 

"Yes..no..that's not what people usually say.." Molly this time, her voice was timid, shy, he could hear the stammer in her speech, the lack of confidence to speak to a new colleague, falling back into her 'Big eyed puppy' Routine. 

"it was bloody brilliant, how?" Sherlocked guessed that they had both shrugged in response because he heard nothing but a smile in John's voice. "I'll ask him..next time.." The nerve endings picked up again, spiraling back inwards, before bursting out stronger than before, hitting every heating reaction, Sherlock could feel the tug at his cheeks, the reaction to being accepted..this is what it felt like. Next time, Next time would be sooner than John thought. 

 

___________________________________________

AN- This chapter is really short I know, I apologise, I just wanted to get people's views on it, to see if I should continue with it not. I enjoyed writing it and I do have a plan as to how this will go forward! Comments good and bad will be accepted!

Thank you :D


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